The Difference Between a House and a Home Is You
by Smakerin
Summary: Sherlock and Watson have had a row over a case, ending in John storming out of the apartment, and Holmes isn't sure if he's ever coming back. The question now is how he could ever live with himself if he doesn't. Holmes/Watson subtext.


**Special thanks to Snowy Ashes, who is an absolutely fantastic beta-reader**

Holmes stared at the wall with an intensity that was rarely matched by any but himself. His bathrobe draped over him like an emperor's robe and his slender index fingers pressed together with such force that it was a small wonder that they did not snap like twigs. Shown this scene, one might ask, what could do this to such a man as Sherlock Holmes? What problem could possibly reduce him to such intense thought for such a prolonged span of time?

The answer, of course, is one of the heart. And in matters where the heart and Sherlock Holmes are both concerned, there can only be one other involved.

The room was dark and cold. Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed and the fireplace was dark as the coal that lay within its iron maw. Sherlock Holmes did not care. He had yet to determine if he still cared about anything. That was a problem that could, and would, be solved when more evidence presented itself. Thinking of it gave Sherlock something like comfort but a good deal more mechanical, akin to the sensation of a man who cuts himself open just to see if he can still bleed. For a moment, he took repose in his familiar, concrete problems. He thought of a case that Lestrade had dropped off earlier that day. He wanted to dash off to solve it with Watson and... that's when he runs into it again. This had happened twice now. Every time he tried to get some work done, there they were, that one little word that reminded him why he was ignoring a case, his very lifeblood, in the first place. The name of his flat-mate was like a brick wall that kept him in place, and no matter how much logic and deduction he threw at it it wasn't going to budge. Watson had left, and Sherlock had no way of knowing when or if he would ever come back.

He didn't understand. He had functioned perfectly well before he met his partner. Why should he be rendered so helpless now? Holmes at least knew the answer to this query, but for the first time in his life he had found a question that he had no desire to answer. The inevitable conclusion hung in the air like a spirit, the ghost of the friendship of Dr. John Watson jeering him from beyond the grave.

_So you care about him now, eh?_ jeered the poltergeist, polluting Holmes' mental landscape with things that he could not bear to hear, but desperately needed to. _It seems that the "cold, calculating machine" thinks it has a_ _soul now! Too bad you didn't tell him before he abandoned you for someone who actually acts like a proper human!_

Holmes intensified his focus, then released it, dispelling the illusory spirit. The jeers and taunts were right though. What did he care that Watson was gone? He could pick someone else up practically anywhere and he could continue on like before. There were thousands, if not millions of people like John Watson. There was only ever one Sherlock Holmes.

Even as he thought this he did not truly believe it. Watson had burrowed into Sherlock's life, and now that he was gone there would never be another that fit so precisely, so smoothly. For a moment, he flirted with the idea of suicide. Old age had never appealed to him, and if he had peaked then what was the point in going on any further? Shutting down so newer, better units could take his place seemed appealing. In the darkness he believed followed death, John Watson's remaining imprint could no longer taunt and scratch underdeveloped emotions raw.

He put the gun down. He was simply too logical a being to ever sacrifice all the possibility of discovery and exhilaration that the coming years promised for a moment's solace. Sherlock rose from his seat and walked over to street-facing window. It was raining, the kind of precipitation that seemed to be more of a mood swing than a proper meteorological phenomena. It came down in such thick spatters that anyone but Holmes would entertain the notion of them smashing the window with their force. It reminded him of the stories Watson occasionally told him of his time in the military. The scene on the street was certainly chaotic enough. Holmes cursed the pedestrians under his breath for daring to continue with their lives while his had become so stagnant.

Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes spotted an umbrella that he immediately recognized to be Watson's. When John had left, it was a bit overcast, so he should have taken his rain equipment. Perhaps he planned on returning soon? The realist in Holmes pushed aside the lonely optimistic thought. It was more likely that he simply forgot it in his frustration and anger. He recalled his partner's face as he had stormed out of their shared home, all red with anger and bluster. Why did he have to be such an idiot and say those moronic things that he would never in a million years truly mean.

Perhaps it was his curse to always lose the things that gave his life any meaning. Though Mycroft was a loathsome sloth, he still meant something to Sherlock, as all true brothers do. That relationship had been spoiled so early in his life that he could scarcely remember why it had happened. Adler had vanished like the thief she was, and he doubted that he would ever see again. Even Moriarty, that peer who, though wicked beyond compare, offered Sherlock his first true peer, had sunk from his life into the desolate waters of Reichenbach. It was all gone. For a moment Sherlock Holmes felt utterly and completely alone.

A thought spun through Sherlock's mind, shaking him from his self-pity. What would he do about a living space? With John gone, Holmes could no longer afford so extravagant a dwelling as 221B. Sherlock Holmes was by no means a sentimental man, but this particular instance was special. This place was where he had set up roots with the one person who ever truly accepted him for who he was. The sights and smells of his life with Watson were everywhere, as if they had sunk into the foundations of the building itself. Each of those wonderful years they had spent together was represented in the building, and to one with Holmes deductive talents, it seemed to be almost a storybook that led all the way from the instant he had first entered the dwelling and then abruptly stopped at the present moment as time ever so slowly etched out the next chapter. All of the things that John put up with about Sherlock like his skull and his papers haphazardly scattered about the sitting room, all of the memories. Now _just_ memories, Sherlock feared.

Thunder cracked. Holmes paid it no mind and set John's umbrella back in the stand, carefully, perhaps even gently. The flash of lightning revealed his hawkish eyes, once as sharp as a fine blade, had been dulled by this sickening crash of _emotion _that had pulled him beneath the tide of his own state of mind.

It occurred to Holmes that he might be losing his mind. It was logical after all. He was under enormous stress, and he had none of his usual coping mechanisms about (John had made him quit the narcotics years ago, and arrogance is hardly of any use when there's no one around to be impressed). He lay down on the carpet, a vagrant burrowing in the corpse of his former life for warmth. He wondered what it would be like to go mad. Madness had always been the enemy, the thing that clouded men's minds. It was the thing he had so often been accused of, and thus believed he would never succumb to. It didn't seem to matter much. Though he was scarcely 40, Sherlock Holmes felt at least twice his age. He was so tired, so very, very tired. Perhaps insanity was the only way out. If he couldn't kill himself, and he had to live without Watson, then at least it wouldn't be boring.

Sherlock closed his eyes and felt himself begin to unhinge.

"Sherlock?"

No.

Holmes' eyes snapped open as he pulled back from the edge. Watson was like solid ground after years of drifting alone at sea. In a show of force usually reserved for his enemies, Sherlock leapt from his reclining position and embraced his companion. He was back. He was actually back. After all those idiotic, stupid, arrogant, self-important things he had said, John Watson still came back.

Watson tried to push him off. Years ago, Holmes would have winced at such an open display of affection, perhaps have even thought it a show of weakness. He was past that now. Slowly, he released his grip and stepped back, instantly resuming his usual perfectly calm demeanor. It was ok. Everything would be alright.

The brief but passionate hug would never be mentioned between the two of them again, and the only evidence of it ever having occurred was the smile that shone like the sun on the brown haired man's face.

"I knew you didn't mean it." he said, nearly at the point of tears, but holding them at bay with his war-hardened strength " I knew all those years together meant something."

It was then that Sherlock Holmes did something that neither he nor his partner had ever imagined he would do.

"John, I must confess that I was in the wrong. You had every right to criticize my methods on the Dougherty case. I was out of line."

The words didn't feel right on his tongue when applied to himself. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be a man who never said sorry, not sincerely at any rate, even to someone as close to him as his partner. He knew that had to change. It wasn't going to be easy, but it was better than living without his one and only companion.

A look of shock spread over Watson's face. "Apology accepted, old friend."

The two of them retired to the sitting room til' daylight. They both should have been asleep, but somehow they both realized that they needed each other's company. Holmes studied the case Lestrade had dropped off, and to any observer, it would seem as if nothing had happened between the two. If anything, they seemed to get on better than before the row even happened. One might even be so lucky as to catch a rare smile darting across the face of the world's first and only consulting detective when he thought his companion wasn't looking.

The warm glow of the fire lulled both of them to sleep. It was the deepest, most comfortable sleep that either of them had gotten in a great while. If pushed to describe what had changed about the household, a knowledgeable observer would say that it seemed more secure and safe.

A knowledgeable observer wouldn't know the half of it. After so many years together, the detective and the doctor were finally home to stay.


End file.
